


i'd do this for an eternity for you

by waitingforalienstokillme



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Car Accidents, Depressed Lance (Voltron), Established Relationship, Gay Keith, Ghost Keith (Voltron), I hate tagging, I love angst, Laith, Lance (Voltron)-centric, Lance is so sad, Langst, M/M, astronomer keith, bi lance, i love betty she is so small and nice, it wasn't supposed to end like this, keith misses his boyfriend so much, keith will fight for his boy forever, klance, klangst, lance moving on, miss me with reading this shit, only writing it tho, this is actually really sad lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 11:42:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15750969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitingforalienstokillme/pseuds/waitingforalienstokillme
Summary: It has been two days, eleven hours, and twenty four minutes since Keith Kogane had been killed on his motorcycle ride home by a drunk driver, four minutes after leaving his boyfriend’s house in tears and fiery eyes.





	i'd do this for an eternity for you

**Author's Note:**

> sorry :( angst is just so much easier for me to write i SWEAR i didn't mean for it to be this sad!!!!!!! i kinda rushed it at the end because i hate working on one thing for too long (ive been trying to write this for AGES but i never really planned out a proper plot but i refused to just. not finish it.) anyways ill write some fluff soon i PROMISE god i just love making my boys in love suffer
> 
>  
> 
> edit: me, a week later: this is literally the one that got away by katy perry

It has been two days, eleven hours, and twenty four minutes since Keith Kogane had been killed on his motorcycle ride home by a drunk driver, four minutes after leaving his boyfriend’s house in tears and fiery eyes.

 

Lance had told him to go home. He had told him that he  _ didn’t have time for this, Keith,  _ and they could talk in the morning when he wasn’t so drunk and Keith wasn’t so angry  _ all the damn time, it’s fucking exhausting, you know?  _

 

He’d been lying, of course- bringing up Keith’s anger issues from his adolescence always added the unnecessary heat that Lance craved to any argument because sometimes when Lance was drunk he said stupid things and sometimes when Keith was angry like that he couldn’t pull his own head out of his tunnel-vision of rage to see that neither of them were thinking too clearly. 

 

One minute, Lance had been stumbling into the kitchen after another long day at work and the next he was being yelled at because Keith was tired of waiting up for him and _worked for an hour to make that stupid pasta dish you love because it’s fucking Thursday, Lance- it’s Thursday, and you always come home early on Thursday so we can eat fucking pasta and watch dumb movies and fall asleep on the couch and this is the fourth time you’ve done this._

 

So, yeah- Lance told him to leave. Lance told him to go home with a half-assed sigh and a rub to the temples, and Keith could only stare at him with wide, confused eyes before being told again, in a much harsher tone this time. And he had said  _ fuck you, Lance,  _ as he slammed the door and made his way back to his half-empty apartment because the majority of his things were already in Lance’s bedroom and they were supposed to be making the last trip to get the rest of his furniture and clothing tomorrow before he moved in completely.

  
  


Keith Kogane was killed by a drunk driver four minutes from his boyfriend’s house after the large SUV ran a stop sign and couldn’t make out the small blur of red lights reflecting off the back of Keith’s motorcycle. The driver kept going- their plate number has yet to be discovered from the pitch darkness and the intense speed they were driving at. No camera footage has been found. The rest is classified until further notice.

  
  


It had been late.

 

And quiet.

 

Sometimes, Lance wondered if Keith had screamed. 

 

If he had just screamed and screamed and screamed, and no one ever heard him. No one  _ ever  _ heard him.

 

He wondered if he cried, if he called for help- or if he had just laid on the blood-stained street, staring at the stars until it became all he could see. Maybe he was thinking about how excited he was to finally being able to go see them. 

 

Maybe he was thinking of how meeting his mom would go, if she’d be proud of him.

 

Maybe he had been thinking that the paramedics would be there soon, and how annoying it would be to have to miss his big presentation at the astrophysics conference at the convention center downtown tomorrow. 

  
  


Maybe he was thinking of Lance. Maybe he was thinking about how he was going to be so, so worried and annoyed that Keith hadn’t been more careful, trying to imagine his face bursting into the hospital room with tear-rimmed eyes and loving insults spitting out of his mouth.

 

Maybe he was thinking that Lance wouldn’t even show up, that he was probably passed out on the couch- maybe he was thinking that the four times Lance never came home were reserved for someone else. Maybe he was thinking that’s where Lance wanted to be instead- Maybe he thought that’s where Lance  _ should  _ be, with all the problems he had as a kid and how messed up he was.

  
  


Maybe he was thinking about how he wouldn’t see Lance again for a very, very long time.

  
  
  
  


Some people say that if a tree falls down in the forest and no one is there to hear it, it doesn’t make a sound.

  
  
  


These are the things that Lance tends to think about at night when he looks through their old telescope sat on the window sill, next to a journal of Keith’s sketches and studies about space, buried under untouched paperwork and scratch paper filled to the brim with doodles of spaceships and astronauts and calculations he wondered if Keith even truly understood. 

 

Looking out into the night sky, the stars never gave him the answers he wanted. Never shone any brighter or duller, never aligned to make up some new constellation in dedication to their biggest fan. 

 

Lance thought the stars were selfish for that.

 

Keith would’ve died a million times for the stars.

  
  


Keith Kogane had been declared dead for twelve minutes before his body had been seen by two girls trying to sneak back into their home after a late night. 

 

Lance didn’t know this until he saw it on the headline of the newspaper the next day.

 

He didn’t get the newspaper himself- he was outside, walking to his car in order to drive over to Keith’s to apologize, to tell him how much their relationship meant to him, to tell him how much he owned of Lance’s heart and how he’ll never miss their Thursday evenings again. His neighbor, however, was out on her porch reading it with sad eyes. 

 

Her name was Betty McManson and she taught Lance how to garden and convinced him to mow her lawn for her on Saturdays. She invited Keith over for dinner when Lance was out of town on business and taught him how to cook when he was seventeen, when him and Lance were still best friends hopelessly smitten for each other. She had been there to watch them grow from teenagers into adults, friends to lovers, stupid kids to stupid kids in love. She was nearing her 80th birthday and wore strictly cropped blue jeans and floral blouses, reading the paper every day on her front porch after watering her lilacs and roses.

She was Lance’s hero and the mother Keith never had. 

 

When her teary eyes met Lance’s from across the yard, she wobbly stood up from her wooden chair, stretching out her arms and setting the paper down gently on the small table next to her, her finger barely gracing over the soft features of Keith’s face through the small box that held his photo.

 

“Lance,” she said, a few tears threatening to leak out of her brown eyes, “my boy- I am so, so sorry.”

 

“I’m sorry? Are you alright, Betty, what happened?” Lance slowly started walking to her porch in confusion, his arms hesitantly accepting the hug given to him.

 

“Lance, I know you’re probably in denial right now- and that’s fine. But just know that Keith-”

 

“Oh!” Lance laughed, backing away from her, smiling easily. “Don’t worry- I’m sorry if we woke you up last night. Keith and I just had a small argument, but we’ll be fine. I’m actually on my way to his place right now- you wouldn’t happen to have any extra cinnamon cookies from Tuesday, would you? You know they’re his favorite-”

 

“Lance.” Betty put a small hand on his arm, slowing him to a stop. Her eyes were sad, and she looked hesitant as she carefully lifted the newspaper and placed it in his hands with a gentle ease Lance had never experienced before. 

 

Lance’s smile slowly died off as his brain started to register the headline “22-year-old killed in drunk driving accident on motorcycle, left dead on street for twenty minutes before found”. 

 

Eyes snapped to a small box framing a picture of Keith- it was his driver’s license photo, when his hair was pulled back out of his eyes and he was wearing Lance’s blue button down because  _ you can’t look like you haven’t showered in a month for your ID picture, Mullet, just take it and go before you’re late.  _

  
  
  
  


It has been two days, eleven hours, and twenty seven minutes since Keith Kogane had been declared dead and his boyfriend has thrown up twelve times in the past hour and a half.

 

He kept telling himself that he was starting to feel better, but then he would see Keith’s blood stain on the street four minutes away from his house again and it would all come back up. He had been driving to his best friend, Hunk’s, apartment when he swerved off the road after seeing the dark brown splatters painting the side of the pavement less than a hundred feet in front of the stop sign. He heaved into the toilet for hours, crying and gasping and begging for it to stop.

 

For what to stop, he didn’t know. Maybe for the blood to stop rushing to his head. For the puke to stop resurfacing from an empty stomach because any step closer to becoming healthier reminded him that Keith wasn’t there to give him the extra push. For the insomnia to stop because behind closed eyelids danced between flashbacks of Keith’s pretty smile and his glazed over eyes, violet being lost in a swirl of absolute nothingness. For the calls to stop hurting his ears, he can feel pity from across the room before he even registers the vibrations against their wooden table. He didn’t want pity. He wanted Keith to walk through the door with maybe a few cuts and bruises, saying,  _ “Sorry, love, I didn’t mean to come home so late. I’ve missed you”.  _

 

For him to stop trying to convince himself that Keith was coming back.

 

For Keith to  _ stop, come home baby, I didn’t mean it, I love you, I love you, I love you. _

  
  
  


Lance heard footsteps on the wooden floors of his kitchen, busy and light, like they were walking in circles. After waiting a few moments, Lance stood on wobbly knees after the soft squeaking of his cabinets and drawers opening, then the fridge, and then the microwave. 

 

Looking into his bathroom mirror, Lance sighed at his appearance. Once perfectly glowing skin was riddled with spots of acne and dry patches, dark bags falling under his eyes and chapped lips cut into razor-bites from gnawing with his front teeth. A bit of puke stained his grey hoodie and his hair stuck up in every direction, leaving him look like he had been living life out on the streets. Lance picked up his toothbrush very quietly, calling out to Hunk that he’d be in there in a minute, and that he  _ doesn’t have to keep checking up, I’m fine, really. _

 

The noise in the kitchen stopped. 

 

Soft footsteps could be heard padding down the hallway, but Hunk never reached the bathroom- hell, his steps themselves were anything but- thunderous and booming, yet hesitant and careful. The steps Lance heard were determined. Hard. Reckless.

 

Lance stopped brushing his teeth, frozen in the mirror. 

  
  


He quickly threw his toothbrush back into the sink and ran out the doorway, stopping in the hall where he heard the noises. He squeezed his eyes shut, looking down at the ground because  _ God, this is so stupid. I’m so stupid.  _

Still, Lance slowly opened his eyes, gently letting the name in question slip from his lips. 

 

“Keith?”

 

Just as he did, the microwave beeped, sending Lance up in the air 3 feet and screaming. 

 

Hesitantly walking into the empty kitchen, Lance opened the microwave to see the inside empty and turned off. “What the fuck are you doing, Lance?” he asked himself as his hands found their way into short brown hair, tugging in frustration. “He’s not here. He’s not coming back.”

 

Just as he turned to sulk back into the bathroom to stare in the mirror for a while longer and maybe puke if he feels up to it, Lance stops dead in his tracks, looking at the small bowl of freshly made soup sitting on the counter behind where he had stood, steam still swirling out the top. 

He backs up slowly, eyes wide. “I didn’t do that… I didn’t do that…” Lance slowly whispers on repeat, looking around.

 

“Hello?” He hesitantly calls out from the kitchen bar stools to the small living room, “Is anyone here?” When there came nothing but the small hum from inside the fridge as a response, Lance said harshly, “I have several years of combat training and a perfect aim. If I were you, buddy, i’d leave now.” Then, “I literally have no money, man. I’m 22 living in my parent’s old house. Trust me, there’s nothing here that you want.”

 

Soft footsteps made Lance’s ears perk up toward the hallway leading back to where he came from. Slowly getting Keith’s old baseball bat from the closet next to the front door, Lance cautiously followed. 

He ducked his head into the storage closet and bathroom to see them both still empty, quiet. There was nowhere else the stranger would be.

Lance gulped as he looked to the door at the end of the hallway- his bedroom had never seemed so scary before now, the horror-film scene taking place right before him as the small crack in the door seemed to radiate pure ominous energy.

 

Gently pushing the door open, Lance saw nothing but one side of the bed unmade- the only difference from this morning. Had he been imagining all of this? Forgetting he made himself soup, recreating his boyfriend’s steps in his head, unmaking Keith’s side of the bed and-

 

Lance stopped, eyes wide as he looked at the bed again, the blanket closest to the edge messed up at the corner, like Keith had just then slipped in after a long day as usual. He shook his head and stepped two steps closer because no matter how much Keith’s death destroyed him, Lance would  _ never  _ sleep without something firm and hard against his back. He would  _ never  _ sleep on that side of the bed,  _ ever. _

 

_ Keith. _

  
  


Carefully crawling over to his side of the bed, Lance stared at the messy sheets and wrinkled pillow where his boyfriend used to sleep. It still looked so lived in, so real. More tears started running down his cheeks before he could realize they were there to begin with. Soon, the few streaks of wetness falling down his cheeks turned into sobs and choking because  _ fuck, he really is never coming home, is he? _

He’s not going to show up in a few days, saying he just needed some time to think. He’s not going to text Lance that he misses him the second he leaves for work in the morning. He’s not going to call Lance when he’s away on a business trip. He’s never going to call, period. He’s never going to tell Lance he loves him ever again, he’s never going to say “I do”, he’s never going to say anything ever again. Lance is never going to hear his voice or feel his breath or listen to his laugh ever again. 

He’s crying hysterically now, shaking and rocking back in forth, trying to curl into himself in their small bed. Reaching for his phone on the nightstand, fingers mistyping and dropping the phone continuously, Lance barely makes it to the ‘phone’ application on his screen.

 

He harshly dials the ten digits he memorized when he was 13 after the boy had cautiously given him the number after school so they could plan a partner project.

It wasn’t for four years that he would use the name number to plan their first date, or nine years that he would use it to call and say “Hey, beautiful, when does my lovely fiance plan to be back home?”

 

He sets the call to be on speaker and lays it next to him on his pillow. 

 

“Hey,” the voice through the machine starts, making Lance sigh out one last sob, “Keith here. Sorry I couldn’t make the call. I’ll get back to you.” The phone beeps a dial tone and Lance ends the call.

 

_ I’ll get back to you. _

_ I’ll get back to you. _

_ I’ll get back to you. _

 

Lance dials the number again, and again, and again. “Please come back to me,” he whispers.

  
  
  


“Lance, scoot over, you’re taking up the bed again.” Lance shoots up, his hands out in front of him, ready to attack. Keith doesn’t flinch, only rolls his eyes and sighs a small chuckle, slipping under the covers next to him, the bed dipping down slightly.

“Keith?” Lance stares at the boy, and he turns around, looking at him with a sad smile. 

“Hi, love,” he whispers.

 

“Where have you been? What happened? Are you okay-” Lance’s worried panic is stifled by a very real, living, cold-as-usual hand being against his mouth.

“You’re too loud. It’s late, let’s sleep, yeah? I’m tired, Lance.” Keith’s voice is raspy as his hand moves to cup Lance’s cheek, stroking his thumb underneath his eye.

 

Lance nods, dazed. “I love you,” he whispers into Keith’s hair as the boy pushes himself up against his stomach, tucking his head into the crook of Lance’s neck. 

“I know,” Keith says back, “I know you do.”

  
  
  
  


The next morning, Lance’s phone is turned over, sitting on the nightstand and plugged in. An alarm he never set last night goes off, jerking the sleeping boy awake, loosening his grip on the air around him that he had tucked into his chest. 

“Keith… turn it off..-” Sitting up, Lance glances around the empty room. There is no sign of Keith.

 

_ Because he’s dead, Lance. He’s dead and he never came and you’re going insane. _

 

But he never set the alarm. He never made soup and he sure as  _ hell _ didn’t put a box of tissues on the nightstand. He never plugged his phone in last night or undid the sheets on Keith’s side of the bed or purposefully made the bed dip in weight. 

 

He got out of bed and stalked around his bedroom for a little while, searching for clean clothes that weren’t strewn across the floor in the mayhem that became his bedroom.  _ Keith wouldn’t want you to live in your filth like this,  _ he thought as he slowly started to pick up the clothes off the floor and put them in the hamper, picking up pieces of trash off the floor and out of his jean pockets and throwing them away. And he walked out into the hallway and brushed his teeth because  _ I refuse to kiss you with that morning breath, Lance, just go brush your teeth and  _ then  _ you came come back to bed, okay? I’ll kiss you all you want, then. _

His bathroom was clean, he had realized before he turned off the lights next to the sink. The toilet was completely rid of the puke he had not been so carefully aiming into the bowl yesterday, and the cabinets and mirror looked freshly scrubbed down. Looking at his reflection, he saw Keith standing next to him, trying to reach across his torso with short arms, laughing, “Lance! Get out of the way, you  _ tree,  _ you take too long to get ready.”

 

He threw his clothes in the wash and went outside into their small backyard, turning on the hose from the back and walking out to the garden. Before he turned the water on to spray them, though, a small shine caught his eye on the petals of the lavender in the corner. Lance stepped closer, inspecting the flowers to see droplets of water slowly slipping off the petals and leaves of every plant in the garden, the soil at the bottom slowly merging into a mud texture. He turned off the hose water and stood straight, looking around for any evidence of rain in the early morning, but only saw dry grass and mulch quenching under a hot sun. 

 

“What are you doing to me?” Lance quietly asked his vacant yard as he put his head back into his hands, trying his hardest not to cry because  _ Keith always watered the flowers, Keith always cleaned the bathroom, Keith always took care of the little background things in Lance’s life- why are they still being done when he’s not here? _

  
  


And he turned around, looking into the window from the outside, and he saw him- with a messy ponytail at the nape of his neck, bangs going every which way as he holds his red mug in his hands, watching Lance with that look of adoration he always had- one that Lance caught on him very few times. And he was just standing there, in their living room, a gentle smile on his face, and Lance could see the twinkling violet in his eyes through the glass and it felt so  _ real. It had to be real. _

So he ran inside. Lance threw the door open and searched the whole house, calling his name, looking for the messy ponytail and grey sweater and pale skin but he wasn’t  _ there, he’s not here, Lance, he’s never coming back,  _ and he almost convinced himself of it until he ripped open the top cabinet of their kitchen and saw one single mug missing out of all of the ugly, funny, pretty, and plain mugs Keith collected but never drank out of. Because he drank out of his  _ plain red coffee mug,  _ the one Lance got him for Christmas when they were 14. 

  
  


“I know you’re here,” Lance called out into the empty room, gently sitting on the couch, “you never  _ were  _ quiet. You’re not background noise. You’re here- I know you are.” Laying down, he closed his eyes, and he proceeded to  _ not  _ imagine the other side of the couch dip down slightly.

 

“You have to be.”

  
  
  
  


“And you said that he’s been doing your… chores? For you?” The woman, Clariss Walker, asked Lance as he guided her through the front door.

“Well, yeah,” Lance shrugged as he motioned her to sit on the couch, pouring a small cup of tea for the medium as she examined the area. “Keith always used to do stuff like that anyways. He’d water the garden, clean the bathroom, do the laundry. It used to calm him down when he was a kid- housework is like, his thing I guess.”

 

But the woman had gone long silent before Lance had stopped talking. Her eyes were shut, and a small smile pulled at the corner of her lips. Lance pleaded to every God there happened to be out there that this woman wasn’t a fake- he wanted to believe in  _ anything  _ as long as it meant  _ someone  _ could tell if Keith really was here or not. To talk to him, to hear him again. He would do  _ anything. _

A medium was not his last resort- a ouija board, maybe- but it was still toward the bottom of his list of how he wanted to contact Keith. He didn’t particularly believe in people that were born with the ability to speak with spirits- but then again, he didn’t really believe in those either before all of this chaos began. 

 

“Close your eyes with me, he’s here,” she tells Lance, and Lance- being the love-sick, sad, twisted bastard he was, nodded in absolute  _ glee  _ and closed his eyes, taking the hand of the old stranger across from him.

“Keith, my name is Clariss- I’m here to speak with you. I want to know what you have to say.” A moment of silence comes upon the room, and Lance peeks with one eye to see the woman squinting hers together, her mouth pulled into a thin line, nodding slightly.

 

Opening her eyes, Lance tries to shut his quickly to hide that he had opened them to begin with. Clariss smiled gently, squeezing his hand. “He’s a feisty one,” she says.

And Lance can only look at her, a gentle grin forming at his lips as he shakily laughs, tears starting to form in his eyes because “Yeah, yeah, he is, isn’t he?”

 

“Keith is very embarrassed you brought me here,” Clariss starts, “he says it is so very ‘you’ and that you need to stop watching so much TV.” Lance full out laughs, tears openly streaming down his cheeks because  _ yeah, he really does and God he wishes he could hear him say that instead. _

“He tells me that he is scared.” The woman takes both of Lance’s hands and closes her eyes, listening to the silence of the living room as Lance stares at her in wonder. “He says that he does not know why he is here, but only that there is a reason- something he needs to do before he can leave peacefully. He has told me that until he can figure it out, he’s going to live his days the same way he left them.”

 

Lance nods enthusiastically, eyes wide as he leans closer. “Can you tell him I’m sorry? For that night? For everything, ever. I’m so sorry, I’ll never forgive myself. Tell him, please.”

 

Clariss smiles at him sadly. “He can hear you, Lance. He’s right here with us.” She goes quiet for another moment before adding, “He says he knows. And that he loves you so much. He told me to tell you he loves you more than anything in the whole universe- and he would do anything to have you in his arms once more.”

  
  


After an hour or so, Clariss leaves, receiving a generous tip and warm hug from Lance on her way out. Once the door shuts, Lance smiles slightly, a calm peace engulfing the air. “I love you, too,” he calls out to the room, “I miss you.”

  
  
  


The days turn into weeks, turn into months. Keith had successfully shown Lance how to do everything Keith had been doing behind the scenes to keep their living up and running. In the morning, Lance waters the flowers and washes his clothes, cleans the bathroom and folds towels and makes his own soup when he is sick. He goes out more- almost as much as he used to before the accident happened. He sets his own alarms now.

The only true evidence Lance got that Keith was still there was at night, when the bed would dip down on the edge and Lance would feel a small warmth close into his chest, a ghost of limbs wrapping themselves around his body. As the months continued, it became less and less noticeable. 

 

Almost two years after the accident, Lance found himself having another bad night- one he hadn’t experienced in a very long time, filled with shaking and crying and a ringing in his head that wouldn’t go away. He had been on his kitchen floor, puking into the trashcan and shivering until he passed out. 

He had a vague memory of an almost-familiar, far away voice speaking to him in a dream that he knew, and would never admit, was never a dream at all. “I’m right here, love, I’m right here with you.”

 

He had woken up the next day with a blanket over his body and ice water sitting in a blue mug next to 2 advils at his feet. 

That had been the last time Keith ever did something for Lance the same way he had in the beginning. Taking care of him. 

 

As far as he knew.

 

Sometimes he would go out drinking too late and his keys he would throw somewhere off in the living room before going to bed would randomly appear in the glass bowl on the kitchen counter the next morning before Lance could panic about losing them.

 

On his grocery list, the word ‘milk’ in slightly different handwriting appeared at the bottom right before Lance had gotten to the store, having forgotten- not that he would ever know, not even taking a second glance at the fact that he never curled his L’s like that.

  
  


These things were very rare- and Lance never noticed them. Keith was fine with that, he decided a very long time ago, as long as he could see Lance smiling again and getting healthy. 

  
  
  


The last time Lance ever saw Keith was in a dream, seven years after his death, four months after Lance’s engagement to a beautiful girl named Lily who deserved the entire world.

 

His usual night terrors had stopped abruptly for a long time, and as he saw the boy at the end of his bed, he was convinced he saw the answer as to why they did. 

He saw the boy’s dark silhouette fighting against black claws raging past him, trying to grab at Lance’s feet that were hanging freely from covers. And Lance wondered why the monsters looked so familiar and why Keith still looked the same as he had when he was 17 and why was he  _ here, was he still here? Had he always been here, in this part of Lance’s mind, fighting the bigger battles that were more important than making sure he set his alarm?  _ And why Keith was fighting, why he was always getting in trouble, why he was always so  _ angry _ and if he could hear Lance scream his name? If he could see him trying to run the miles from his pillow to the foot of his bed where the boy stood, young and free and reckless and hard as ever, and his fingers could barely brush past the hairs at the end of his nape and it felt so  _ real, so right, like nothing had changed with that stupid mullet.  _ And it was so  _ real,  _ the way Keith turned around abruptly at the movement, jumpy like always, before the same gentle smile of adoration settled on his face, it was so  _ real  _ the way his eyes crinkled at the sides just a bit and the small chip on his left tooth was still there. 

It was so real, Lance will die believing, the way Keith’s cold hand fit into the curve of Lance’s cheek like he had never held something so gentle in all of his life, his whole world, and Lance then believes that no one, not even the love of his life and the woman he will make himself a worthy man to marry for, will ever truly make him feel this way.

 

And it was too real, the way Lance looked at him and tried to say  _ I miss you. I’ve always missed you I always will,  _ it was too real the way his body collapsed into a solid frame, searching for a heartbeat he knew wasn’t there. It was too real the way Keith said his name, the way he said it being the way he said it the first time he told Lance he was in love with him, the way he said his name the same way the first time they made love, the first time they fell asleep watching movies and eating pasta on Thursday night, the first time he ever met him. 

It was too real the way Keith took a deep breath of the boy in his arms- he’d been waiting for so  _ long  _ it felt, even though he knew it would be even longer before he would ever see the love of his life again.

 

And Lance asked him, how long have you been here, fighting this for me? You must be so tired, baby, so tired, I’m so sorry you’re still here. You must be so tired, I only want you to rest. You need to rest.

  
  
And Lance could’ve sworn, it was  _ so real,  _ the way Keith said to him, “Lance, I’d do this for an eternity for you.”


End file.
